The Spanish Cape Mystery

Chapter Eight Of Hospitality

A ship was sinking at sea. It was a sea of red waves tumbling deep, and the ship was a toy. Colossus stood astride the prow, boldly naked, leering at the dark moon inches above his head. The ship sank and the giant vanished. An instant later his head was small and floating on quiet water, turned blindly to the black heavens. The moon shone brightly on his face; it was John Marco. Then the sea vanished and John Marco was a tiny chinaware man swimming in a glass of water. He was very stiff and dead. The clear liquid kept bathing his white enamelled body, lifting his curly hair, bumping him idly against the sides of the glass, which gradually grew opaque with a dyeing scarlet which looked like...

Mr. Ellery Queen opened his eyes in darkness, feeling thirsty.

For a moment his brain was a dizzy vacuum groping toward memory. Then memory flooded back and he sat up, licking his chops and fumbling for the lamp beside his bed.

“Can’t say that vaunted subconscious of mine has been of any assistance,” he muttered as his fingers touched the switch. The room sprang alive. His throat was parched. He pressed the button beside his bed, lit a cigaret from his case on the night-table, and lay back smoking.

He had dreamed of men and women and seas and forests and strangely animate busts of Columbus and bloody coils of wire and forging cruisers and one-eyed monsters and... John Marco. Marco in a cloak, Marco naked, Marco in white drills, Marco in tails, Marco with horns sprouting from his forehead, Marco making Hollywood love to fat women, Marco dancing adagio in tights, Marco singing in doublet and hose, Marco shouting blasphemies. But nowhere in the turbulent career of his dream had he even glimpsed a rational answer to the problem of Marco murdered. His head ached and he did not feel at all rested.

He grunted at a knock on his door and Tiller glided in with a tray bearing glasses and bottles. Tiller was smiling paternally.

“You’ve had a nice nap, I trust, sir?” he said as he set the tray down on the night-table.

“Miserable.” Ellery grimaced at the contents of the bottles. “Plain water, Tiller. I’m thirsty as the very devil.”

“Yes, sir,” said Tiller with a raising of his precise little brows, and he took the tray away and returned instanter with a carafe. “You’ll be hungry, too, sir, no doubt,” he murmured as Ellery drained his third glass. “I’ll have a tray sent up at once.”

“Good lord! What time is it?”

“Long past dinner, sir. Mrs. Godfrey said you weren’t to be distrurbed — you and Judge Macklin. It’s almost ten o’clock, sir.”

“Good for Mrs. Godfrey. Tray, eh? By George, I am hungry. Is the Judge still sleeping?”

“I fancy so, sir. He hasn’t rung.”

“‘Thou sleepest, Brutus, and yet Rome is in chains,’” said Ellery sadly. “Well, well, that’s the greatest boon of senescence. We’ll let the old gentleman have his rest; he’s earned it. Now fetch me that tray, Tiller, like a good fellow, while I wash some of this grime off my body. We must pay due reverence to God, to society, and to ourselves, you know.”

“Yes, sir,” said Tiller, blinking. “And if you’ll pardon my saying so, sir, this is the first time any gentleman in this house has quoted both Voltaire and Bacon in the same breath.” And he pattered imperturbably away, leaving Ellery staring.

Incredible Tiller! Ellery chuckled, jumped out of bed, and made for the bathroom.

When he emerged, freshly bathed and shaved, he found Tiller arranging a table with creamy napery. A huge tray filled with covered silver dishes and giving off a delicate aroma of hot food made his mouth water. He got hastily into a dressing-gown (the admirable Tiller had unpacked his bag in the lavatory interval and put away his things) and sat down to stupefy his appetite. Tiller presided with a deftness and self-effacement that proclaimed butlerage still another of his infinitely variegated accomplishments.

“Uh — not that I’m casting aspersions, you understand, Tiller, at your perfect conduct,” said Ellery at last, setting down his cup, “but isn’t this the proper function of the butler?”

“Indeed it is, sir,” murmured Tiller, busy with the dishes, “but you see, sir, the butler has given notice.”

“Notice! What’s happened?”

“Funk, I fancy, sir. He’s a reactionary, sir, and murders and such things are a little out of his line. He’s offended, too, at what he terms the ‘shockin’ coarse manners’ of Inspector Moley’s men.”

“If I know Inspector Moley,” grinned Ellery, “his notice won’t get him out of here — not until this case is cleared up. By the way, has anything special happened since my dip into oblivion?”

“Nothing, sir. Inspector Moley has gone, leaving a few of his men on duty. He asked me to tell you, sir, that he would be back in the morning.”

“Hmm. Thanks awfully. And now, Tiller, if you’ll clear this mess out... No, no, I’m perfectly capable of dressing myself! I’ve done it for some years now, and in my own way I’m as hostile to change as that butler of yours.”

When Tiller had gone, Ellery rapidly dressed himself in fresh whites and stole into the adjoining room, after a futile knock on the communicating door. Judge Macklin lay peacefully snoring in a chamber resplendent in royal blue. He was wearing rather flamboyant pajamas and his white hair stuck innocently up from his head like a halo. The old gentleman, Ellery saw, was probably good for the rest of the night; and so he stole out and went downstairs.

When Regan out of the sweetness of her nature plucked aged Gloucester’s beard, he said rather plaintively: “I am your host. With robbers’ hands my hospitable favours you should not ruffle thus.” It is not recorded that this admonishment awoke repentance in the breast of Lear’s daughter.

Mr. Ellery Queen found himself in a quandary; and not for the first time in his career. Walter Godfrey fell short of being the perfect host, and he was the type of fat little man whose facial follicles are infertile; nevertheless Ellery had eaten his food and slept, so to speak, in his bed; and to pluck — in a continuation of the figure — hairs from Godfrey’s beard was an act of sheer effrontery to the laws of hospitality.

In short, Ellery found himself perched on the horns of the usual dilemma: to eavesdrop or not to eavesdrop. Now, while eavesdropping is an affront to hospitality, it is an essential to the business of detection; and the great question in Ellery’s mind was: Was he first a guest, or was he first a detective? He decided very shortly after the opportunity presented itself that he was a guest by sufferance only, and in the face of special circumstances; wherefore he owed it to himself and to the cause of truth in which he was enlisted to listen with all the power of his keen ears. And listen he did, with enlightening result; realizing that the quest for the Holy Grail itself is not more beset with difficulties than the merest seeking after one true, unvarnished word.

It had happened quite unexpectedly, and he had had to wrestle with his conscience on the instant. He had descended into an apparently empty house; the vast cavern of the living-room was untenanted; the library, into which he poked his head, was dark; the patio was deserted. Wondering where every one was, he strolled out into the fragrant gardens, alone under a tepid moon.

At least, he thought he was alone. He thought he was alone until he came upon a bend of the shell-garnished path and heard a woman sob. The garden was luxuriant here, the bushes tall; he was quite invisible in their shadows. Then a man spoke, and Ellery knew that the unpredictable Godfreys, husband and wife, were beyond the bend.

Godfrey was saying in a low voice from which, even now, he could not banish the whip-note: “Stella, I must talk to you. It’s high time some one laid the law down. You’re going to give me the truth of this business or I’ll know the reason why; d’ye understand?”

Ellery was perched on the horns for a trice only; and then he was listening very closely indeed.

“Oh, Walter,” Stella Godfrey was sobbing, “I... I’m so glad. I’ve got to talk to somebody. I never thought you...”

It was a time for confession: the moon was melting and the gardens an invitation to burdened souls.

The millionaire grunted, but it was a softer grunt than usual. “By God, Stella, I can’t make you out. What are you crying for? It seems to me that you’ve done nothing but cry ever since I married you. The Lord knows I’ve given you everything you’ve wanted; and you know that there’s never been another woman with me. Is it this Marco tripe?”

Her voice was muffled and unsteady. “You’ve given me everything but attention, Walter. You’ve ignored me. You were romantic enough when I married you and you — you weren’t so fat. A woman wants romance, Walter...”

“Romance!” he snorted. “Poppycock. You’re not a child any more, Stella. That stuff is all right for Rosa and this Cort boy. But you and I — we’re past that. I am. And you ought to be. Trouble with you is that you’ve never grown up. Do you realize that you might very easily be a grandmother by now?” But there was an uncertain note in his voice.

“I’ll never be past that,” cried Stella Godfrey. “That’s what you can’t seem to understand. And it isn’t only that.” Her voice became calmer. “It’s not merely that you’ve stopped loving me. It’s that you’ve put me out of your life altogether. Walter, if you paid me one-tenth the attention you pay that dirty old man Jorum, I... I’d be happy!”

“Don’t talk nonsense, Stella!”

“I’ve never known why you... Walter, I swear! You — you drove me to it—”

“To what?”

“To — all this. This terrible mess. Marco...”

He was silent for so long that Ellery began to wonder if he had not gone away. But then Godfrey said hoarsely: “I see it now. Just a fool. I’m supposed to be smart. You mean to tell me — Stella, I could kill you!”

She whispered: “I could kill myself.”

A rising wind slithered through the gardens, leaving a trail of curious music. Ellery stood still in the midst of it and thanked the fates which had awakened him in time. There were revelations in the air. And one never knew—

The millionaire asked quietly: “How long, Stella?”

“Walter, don’t look at me that way... Since... since spring.”

“Just after you met him, eh? What a sucker I’ve been. Didn’t have much trouble picking Walter Godfrey’s prize plum, did he? Just a sucker. Blind as a damn’ bat. Under my nose...”

“It — it wouldn’t have happened at all, I think,” she choked, “if he hadn’t... Oh, Walter, that night you’d been beastly to me — so cold, so indifferent. I— He took me home. He began to take me home. He — he made love to me. I tried to resist, but... Somehow, he got me to take a drink from his flask. And another. And after that — I don’t know. Oh, Walter — he took me to his apartment... I came to there. I—”

“How many others have there been, Stella?” The little man’s voice was like chilled steel.

“Walter!” The tone rose in alarm. “I swear... He was the first! The only one. I just couldn’t stand it any longer. Oh, I had to tell you, now that he’s... he’s...” Ellery could almost see her youthful shoulders quiver.

The fat little man was apparently pacing up and down in the path; his shoes crunched against the gravel in short, quick bursts of sound. Ellery started; the Napoleonic little creature was actually sighing! “Well, Stella, I suppose it was as much my fault as yours. I’ve often wondered how a man feels when he learns that his wife has been unfaithful to him. You read about it in the papers — he takes a revolver, he beats her head in, he commits suicide...” Godfrey paused. “But it hurts. Damn it all, it hurts, Stella.”

She whispered: “I tell you, Walter, I never really loved him. It was just — you know what I mean. As soon as I’d done it I could have killed myself, even though he — he’d got me drunk. I was sorrier than you’ll ever know. But I was trapped and he — oh, he was horrible.”

“So that’s how you came to invite him here,” muttered Godfrey. “I did wonder, in my dumb-animal way. You’ve asked crumby people in your time, but he was unique. And your lover!”

“No, Walter, I didn’t want him! It was all over for me long before then. But he — he forced himself on me, made me accept him as my guest...”

The crunching on the gravel stopped. “You mean to sit there and say he invited himself?”

“Yes. Oh, Walter...”

“Lovely.” His voice was bitter. “He invited himself, he ate my food, he rode my horses, he picked my flowers, drank my liquor, made love to my wife. Pretty soft for him!.. And those others? That Munn couple, that blowsy old Constable frump — where do they come in? The usual scenery, or what? You may as well tell me, Stella. Maybe you don’t realize it, but you’ve got us into one hell of a jam. If the police find out that you and he—”

There was a swish of feminine clothing, sharp and precipitate, and Ellery knew that she had flung herself into her husband’s arms.

He winced. It was decidedly unpleasant. It was like sitting in at the dissection of a cadaver. But he set his lips and listened even more intently.

“Walter,” she whispered, “hold me right. I’m afraid.”

“All right, Stella, all right, all right,” said Godfrey, over and over, softly and mechanically. “I’ll see you through. But you’ve got to tell me the whole truth. How about the others? Where do they come in?”

She was silent for a long time. A cricket chirped maddeningly in the bushes. Then she said, so huskily that the words were deep breaths: “Walter, I never saw any of them in my life before they came here.”

Ellery could feel Godfrey’s astonishment. It filled the sweet air in impalpable gusts. Godfrey was choking; it took him some time to utter coherent words. “Stella!” he spluttered at last. “How can that be? Does Rosa know them? Or did David?”

“No,” she moaned. “No.”

“But how did they—”

“I invited them.”

“Stella, talk sense! Get your chin up, now. This is damned serious. How could you invite them if you didn’t—” Even then he did not see the truth.

“Marco told me to invite them,” she said drearily.

“He told you—! He gave you their names, their addresses out of a clear sky?”

“Yes, Walter.”

“No explanations?”

“No.”

“What happened when they came? After all, they couldn’t have taken it for granted that an invitation—”

“I don’t know,” she said slowly. “I really don’t. It’s been so strange — such an awful, awful nightmare. Mrs. Constable’s been the strangest of all. From the very beginning she pretended. Just as if I’d known her all my life...”

The old crackle came into Godfrey’s voice. “From the very beginning? She saw Marco here at once?”

“Yes. I thought she’d... she’d faint when she first saw him. And yet it wasn’t as if she hadn’t known. I got the definite feeling that she had known — that she’d been steeling herself against the meeting — but that with all that she couldn’t help being shocked. Marco was cool and — and mocking. He accepted the introduction as if he’d never met her... But she fell into the deception instantly. Afraid — she’s been deathly afraid.”

Afraid, thought Ellery grimly, of the same thing that has frightened you, Stella Godfrey. And you’re keeping something back even now. At this moment there is something else which so frightens you, Stella Godfrey, that you daren’t tell—

“That fat old hag,” said the millionaire thoughtfully. “Of course, it’s possible that... And the Munns?”

There was appalling weariness in her reply. “They’re queer, too. Mrs. Munn especially. She’s — funny. She’s just a cheap, pushing creature, Walter, the kind you read about in the tabloids, the grasping chorus-girl type. You wouldn’t think a woman like that would be afraid of anything. And yet from the first moment she saw him she was scared to death, too. We — we’ve been three women walking on the edge of an abyss, blindfolded. Each of us has been afraid, afraid to talk, afraid to breathe, afraid to confide in the others—”

“And Munn?” asked Godfrey curtly.

“I... I don’t understand him at all. You can’t make him out, Walter. He’s so crude and coarse, and yet he has strength. And he never shows what he’s thinking about. He’s really acted very nicely up here for a man of his sort. He’s been trying hard to be ‘society.’ Society!”

“How did he treat Marco?”

She laughed a little hysterically. “Oh, Walter, this is almost humorous. I have to tell you how a man living in the same house with you... With contempt. He didn’t like him at all. Never paid any attention to him. Only when the other night Marco took Mrs. Munn for a stroll in the gardens I... I saw something in Mr. Munn’s eyes. It made me shiver.”

There was another interval of silence. Then Godfrey said quietly: “Well, it seems open and shut to me. You’re three women he’s made love to at various times. He had a hold on you, saw a chance to combine a sponging summer with some good, clean, honest fun. The filthy rat! He made you ask the others here... If I’d known. If I’d only known. When I think of what Rosa has escaped. He was making love to Rosa, too, damn his soul! How could a daughter of mine—”

“Walter, no!” Stella Godfrey cried in anguish. “He may have flirted with her... I’m sure the other thing— Not Rosa. Not Rosa, Walter. I was so tied up in knots myself I was blind to what was going on. Earle’s attitude should have told me. The poor boy’s been frantic—”

Ellery heard her sudden sharp intake of breath. He parted the bushes cautiously. A twig snapped, but they did not hear. In the light of the moon they were standing close together in the path, the woman taller than the man. But the man was grasping her wrists, and on his ugly masterful face there was the oddest expression.

“I said I’d help you,” he said clearly. “But you still haven’t told me everything. Was it just fear that I’d find out that made you such a willing tool of that damned gigolo? Just fear — or something else? The same thing that’s petrified the other two?”

But there is a higher power that protects the rights of violated hosts. And eavesdropping is an uncertain business at best.

Some one was coming up the path. Coming slowly, with heavy feet whose drag expressed the most profound and deadly weariness.

Ellery was in the thick of the bushes in a flash. He was destined never to hear Stella Godfrey’s reply that night. He crouched under cover, holding his breath, his eyes fixed on the path he had left so hastily.

The Godfreys heard, too. They became incredibly still.

It was Mrs. Constable. She loomed into view, a pale large ghost dressed in grotesquely jutting organdie, her bare arms fat and marbly in the moonlight. Her feet were still dragging, scuffing the noisy gravel, and her huge face was blank with the blankness of somnambulism. She was alone.

Her vast haunches passed within inches of Ellery’s head as she rounded the curve in the path.

There was a simultaneous outburst of exclamations, as false in its twitterings as the mechanical song of toy birds.

“Mrs. Constable! Where have you been?”

“Good evening, Mrs. Constable.”

“Hello. I... I was just taking a walk... What a horrible day...”

“Yes. We all feel—”

Ellery snarled to himself with bitterness at the vengeful spirit of the fates, crawled out to the path, and very quietly stole away.